


The Hanging Tree

by BrazenMonkey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Crossover, F/M, Songfic, Suicide, The Hanging Tree, Unhappy Ending, sort of, the hunger games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrazenMonkey/pseuds/BrazenMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things did happen here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title says it all, I guess. I took the beautiful Hanging Tree song from Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games trilogy and turned it into a songfic.
> 
> I really did not like the version used in movie, as it completely differs from the one I always pictured while reading the books. Especially the changes of the lyrics made no sense to me.  
> There is however a cover version available that is absolutely stunning, in my humble opinion. You can find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKrCE1aYz7o) and I suggest this as your accompanying piece of music. It is what I listenend to while writing.
> 
> ConCrit is highly appreciated!
> 
> The lyrics are not my property, nor is the song.

 

 

Are you, are you coming to the tree,  
Where they strung up a man, they say he murdered three?  
Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

 

 

* * *

It unnerves Tyrion to see this.

“I did not know that you took after your own son, dear sister. Displaying corpses like this would be more of the rotten pleasure Joffrey would partake in. But you?” He points his hand towards the hanged man in the red leaves of the tree. “I thought you had more style.”

His sister’s blond elegant hair is caught by the same breeze that softly moves the feet of the rotting corpse swinging in the afternoon wind. The sun filters through the crown of the Weirwood tree and bathes the carcass in a sickly warm light. It does nothing to soften the ashen hue of the dead’s skin, though. Sandor Clegane is as ugly in death as he was in life, the grey tone of his death even more pronounced in the scarred mess of his face. The rope binding his neck to one of the chunkiest branches of the tree is almost as thick as Tyrion’s arm and the body had to be dragged up high so that his lifeless feet no longer touched the ground. His hands are still bound behind his back and his heavy armour had been removed, maybe to make his body less heavy to carry.

“It is a message.” Cersei answers cryptically but not without a tone that Tyrion distinguishes as pride. “And a rather good one, if I say so myself.” Proud indeed, Tyrion thinks.

He frowns. “To whom?”

It takes Cersei a moment to answer. Her eyes take in the scenery with way too much relish for Tyrion’s liking. There is a twisted kind of satisfaction in her eyes and for a moment he has an inkling that his abomination of a nephew might have inherited his distorted idea of fun from his mother.

“To those who would consider doing the same,” she finally pronounces.

“Don’t you find this rather superfluous and a waste of time? Does killing three fellow Kingsguard members in a brawl really warrant such a punishment?”

A smile pulls at Cersei’s thin lips and the hands she had previously folded in front of her bodice almost unconsciously caress each other.

“This was no brawl, was it?” Tyrion curses himself for not realizing this sooner. “There is something more to this, isn’t there?”

She ignores him. But the smile breaks into a full smirk as Cersei turns to leave the sacred garden, her accompanying soldiers in tow behind her billowing skirts.

 ---

_Did you hear? Strung ‘im up in the Godswood, they did!_

_Hanged him? Put a leash on the rabid dog, eh?_

_Butchered Boros, Trant and that other stupid one, what’s his name, from the Kingsguard, the blond one? Took several others to restrain him and stop him, I heard!_

 Sansa cries in the safety of her chambers, cries until she is hoarse, until she has thrown up so often that her throat and lips are chafed from the sour liquids of her stomach. She sobs and shivers in a dark corner of her chamber, the chamber pot full of vomit next to her. Her sobs tear at her innards and rip her ribcage from the inside out. She muffles them in her sleeve and soon realizes that she has rubbed her eyes and the delicate skin around them red and raw. She pounds her head against the wall until her head hurts and she wishes she could draw blood. She is her own captive in the silence forced on her. No-one may hear her mourning.

For three days, she does not sleep, drink or eat.

She avoids the Godswood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry that it took me so long to continue! I will try and be more faithful to you wonderful people out here, please be patient with me.

 

Are you, are you coming to the tree  
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee?  
Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time he brings it up she thinks he might be jesting.

“The only thing to do is get the fuck out of this god-damned shithole of a city. Away, out, gone!”

In a post-lovemaking haste, she thinks, these thoughts are easily uttered. Sated and safely tucked inside his strong grasp, her worries seem so insignificant, her fears so superfluous. For a few precious and delicious moments, she can shed the heavy weight of all the trepidation that she carries around in the walls of the keep and just be carefree. Just for a dangerously sweet moment.

In reply to his words she snuggles closer into his chest.

“One day we’ll fly away...” she murmurs incoherently, picking up on what she considered a little illusion. As if leaving were so easy. As if she were truly a bird who could spread her wings and fly alongside her faithful hound out of the castle walls, unnoticed, unmissed.

But he does not give in so easily. He gets out of his bed, still stark naked, in all his glorious physique and paces the tiny room.

"I told you what they were saying," he reminds her angrily.

Sansa raises herself up in bed and covers her body with the sheet. Old habits die hard and being naked is still nothing she enjoys - even if she does enjoy the hungry looks he gives her pale figure in the dim light.

Yes, he did tell her that the wedding would not be postponed any longer. Waiting until the war is over no longer seems enough for Cersei and Joffrey. Before the traitor Robb Stark wins, they say. Should Robb fall, and everyone in red and golden cloaks wishes for said event, a marriage to Sansa, the then oldest living heir to Ned Stark, would secure the North to the Lannisters, once and for all.

"Stannis will be here soon, they said, too." She argues. Being pretty and empty-headed turned out to be a much better cover than she thought in the beginning. While she is still the victim of cruel jests and taunts for her stupidity, people also deem her too dim-witted to listen. A whisper, a short comment between guards, a piece of parchment lazily dropped, all those are easily acquired by someone who is not perceived as a threat. Stupid little girl, what would she know about war?

His laughter is disdainful. "And then, pretty bird, what will happen when Stannis comes? Lays siege to this castle? Starts to battle?"

She knows this tone. It hurts much more when it comes from him than from the fools at court.

"He will defeat the Lannisters." She answers stubbornly. A fairly silly thing to believe. As if it were that easy. Maybe she really is stupid?

The mirthless laughter is back on Sandor's lips. "Of course he will. And will grant you every single wish of yours only if you bat your lashes with those pretty little eyes at him."

His words cut her more severely than she deserves. "But just imagine, if Stannis comes and wins! My father supported his claim. He was Robert's brother and always on good terms with my family. He would not harm me. He would listen to me, listen to us! We could be..."

“We will never be free!” He storms over to her and roars right into her face. Sansa’s blue eyes widen with terror. She knows he is right, deep down. The red keep is her cage just as much as it is his kennel. And what _if_ Stannis prevails? She is a valuable hostage to anyone, not just the Lannisters, no matter the previous alliances between houses. And the only person he is of real value to is her.

“Does Joffrey have to chop your pretty head of before you understand? You will die here, silly girl, and me along with you now. No matter if it is Stannis or the Lannisters, you are dead meat! A siege is fucking war, girl, and war doesn't stop at little maids. Don’t look at me with those big blue eyes as if I am lying! We are running out of time, disaster comes for us in any case!" His hands tighten on her shoulders and she feels the desperation underneath his anger. It stems from care.

Sandor leans in closer and lowers his voice to a growl. "We both know what will happen when this little fuckery is discovered: Both our heads, your pretty one and my fucking ugly one will be mounted on spears. And don't think for a second that either of us will die as quickly and painlessly as your father did!" He tilts his head to give his words emphasis.

“But where would we go?” she asks as her hands hold onto his stone-like biceps. “Where would we live?” The real doubts she keeps to herself. _How will I make it outside of the world I know? How could I survive on the run? And would you eventually grow tired of me?_

For some strange reason, he sees right through her.

He thrusts his tongue almost violently into her mouth but Sansa yields willingly and utterly taken. His force fuels her passion. The fingers tangled in her hair scratch their nails along her scalp. He is sometimes so unbridled that it would have scared her off, had she been the scrap of a girl she had been all those months ago. But now she longs for that ferocity, for his strength to turn into her own.

He removes his lips from her just as sudden as the kiss started. “Anywhere but here, that’s where we’ll go.”

Sansa searches for any hidden agenda in his stony eyes and immediately scolds herself for doing so. He would never lie to her. He means it. He means to take her away.

“But what about the war? What about all those out there?" Better the Stranger you know, she means to say. Could there be worse people out there than in here? Has he forgotten the kind of monsters like his brother? What they do to people like her?

“Fuck the war. Fuck them all. And no-one will lay a finger on you, little bird. Not while there is still blood running through this body.” His huge paw-like hands clasp her face in between their palms and he pulls her so close she has to dangle on the tip on her toes to hold his gaze.

Her insecurity and worry must have shown on her face. He looks equal parts angry and passionate as he shakes his head and shivers with indignity.

“Do you know what I would do for you? Have you any fucking idea of the things that I would-“

Now it is Sansa who breaks through his words with a kiss. Hers is a lot less crude and rough than his but no less intense. And she understands what he is trying to say. _I would face flames for you._ She knows.

“I would kill for you, all of them, anyone, little bird,” he croaks. “I would die for you.” For a man so opposed to any romantic notion he is far better at uttering sweet declarations of love, Sansa muses. It warms her heart to know that he would even try and voice his feelings, he, a man so unused to words such as those. It is the sweetest utterance of love she could imagine.

But she would not have him prove himself by death. “Don't die for me. Live for me,” she begs. “Live with me outside of this place.”

Comprehension dawns in Sandor’s eyes. And Sansa knows that he is right. Death is the certainty in the equation, and if given a choice, Sansa would rather die somewhere happy and free.

“Let us run.” Sansa confirms his unasked question.

Another rough kiss steals her breath away and now she even feels his hard erection against her belly where his hip grazes hers. A heady surge of lust flows through her and propels the idea of leaving onto a new level of rightness. With his strong arms around her, everything feels much easier, the most difficult task ahead manageable.

When he pulls away from her face, his grin is feral and almost mad. She rejoices in both, without his ferocity and a certain amount of madness, this plan is doomed to fail.

Their second coupling feels like signing an unspoken promise to one another. Together, out there, free.

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure?"

The darkness of the night and the dull sound of the alcove mute her utterance. Sandor leans in closer into the corner to shield her from any view, his broad back large enough to hide her in his arms. If anyone came by, they would see a soldier and a wench, not a disgraced knight and his forbidden fruit.

He nods into her neck and bites her pulse point as his fingers reach beneath her overcoat. "The ship's leaving for White Harbour in a sennight's time. One cot for both of us, little bird. No featherbed, no servants, no fancy chambers, only forty men and your dog to keep you company."

"I don't care," she sighs liquidly into his embrace. She relishes  in his darkness and in the promises he whispers against her skin. A sennight's time only!

"I don't care," she repeats and as he tweaks her nipples through the material of her dress, she presses into him. "I'd rather starve in squalor on a boat with you than stuff myself in silks at Joffrey's table."

He surprisingly desperate to her such hidden proclamations of love or at least belonging. The idea that she only uses him as a means to an end is ever present. His feeling of inferiority bugs her and she feels sorry for him, fully knowing that he loathes pity.

But she did not give into him simply for protection or out of boredom. What he gives her is almost better than protection. Not like Joffrey, who despises her and would rather beat her to death than make her his queen. The only value she has to him is her virginity - and that is long gone. Given to his most trusted protector, who is now fully devoted to her. Who does not need to beat her to feel powerful, who would never harm her. Who fucks her strong and hard and crushes her in his grasp and will risk his life to see her happy again.

His bite grows stronger, strong enough to leave bruises if he isn't careful. "Careful!" she hushes and he releases his grip, not without an angry growl of dissonance.

In only seven short days, they will not need to worry anymore over being too loud, over being caught or even leaving traces of each other. She wonders how their lives will go on from that point onward. In her head, she sees an image of herself, dressed like a commoner, a house full of children with black or auburn hair, Sandor working hard during the day and sating her at night and herself happy and safe. She would have never pledged herself willingly to that vision, but now it seems like the embodiment of everything she desires.

He soon is fucking her in the little dark alcove and has her panting for "more, more!"

Only seven days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you will enjoy this, too. Thank you for your kind words!

Are you, are you coming to the tree  
Where I told you to run so we'd both be free?  
Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree

 

* * *

 

 

It is worse than Sansa expected, far worse than she could have ever fathomed.

The now bloated carcass bears no resemblance to the man she had thought to find here. Is this broken piece of flesh really the man she chose to give everything to? Is this the man who, mere days ago, had made her skin burn and her heart soar with that foreign temptress called hope? Soundless sobs heave Sansa’s thin body, the tears running freely down her cheeks to vanish in little wet spots in her cloak.

“Little dove.”

The only thing that could intensify this very moment of despair is that voice. It suddenly strikes Sansa that in some way, Sandor’s _little bird_ is almost a variation of Cersei’s _little dove_. The difference has never seemed so significant before. The first one brings calm, the last one brings calamity.

“Have you finally come to see it for yourself?” The queen takes place next to Sansa and the shiver that rushes down the younger one’s spine has nothing to do with the cool night air ruffling through the Godswood.

Sansa does not deign to answer. She already has everything she wants from me, Sansa thinks. The last thing she should have is my pain. It is mine to feel, not hers to celebrate.

Cersei has her hands folded almost demurely in front of her body, her head slightly cocked to one side, almost as if she was studying an interesting tapestry and not the rotten body of her former employee. Sansa stares at the carcass as well. The sight of her protector strung up like dead meat grounds her to her spot. Seeing the gloating in Cersei's eyes is the last thing she wants.

“A worrisome tale, isn’t it? Imagine my shock when word came to my ears that someone in my service, someone I had deemed loyal, had planned to humiliate me and my family with a treasonous act of thievery and betrayal. Someone I had trusted with the highest honour I could give, the protection of my firstborn's life – our king’s life! Can you imagine such a thing?”

Sansa swallows the retort on her tongue. _Thievery? How can it be thievery when what is stolen wants nothing more than to be taken away?_ She tries to reign in the tears streaming from her eyes but the only thing to be tamed seem to be her whimpers. No sound interrupts Cersei’s torrent of words.

“He would dare not only betray the generosity of my family, the years of care we provided for that someone, but also my trust in him. A heinous act, don’t you think, little dove?”

The emerald eyes of the queen flit to take in the red and swollen profile of Sansa Stark. So young, so beautiful, so ridiculously daft to have thought she would be one step ahead.

Cersei turns her head back to Sandor Clegane’s remains. “So you might imagine my disappointment at finding this piece of information. The need to act is immediate, of course, not that any others might follow his example. His brothers of the Kingsguard were only too happy to oblige, seeing as they are the truly loyal men in our service.  And then to lose these three to his silly plan, what a waste of capable men.”

 Maybe if Sansa stares hard enough at Sandor’s mutilated body, the queen would blur into nothingness. Maybe if she focussed solely on that pain, she could drown out the voice beside her?

“I only find it fit to show people what happens to traitors, in that regard I fully side with my son. Do you remember, Sansa, what happens to traitors?”

A wild image flashes before Sansa’s inner eye, of Joffrey’s head mounted on a spike, of Cersei thrashing in agony before her son’s severed head, forced to stare just as Sansa had, just as Sansa does now. For she knows that it is for her that Cersei has kept the body hanging for so long. She feeds on other people’s misery, Sansa thinks madly. Not a lion, but a rotten bird of prey.

The pitch of the queen’s voice changes from the gloating tone of victory to that of reverberating fury. “I do not presume to know how long you have played the Hound’s bitch or at what point you decided that the fate of a queen was below you. I had not anticipated that you preferred to spread your legs and offer your cunt to the first _mutt_ that came along. But I want you to stand here and take in the summit of your decisions. From the moment you allowed Sandor Clegane to fuck you, from the moment you dared to go behind my son’s back and chose to offer something not yours to give away, it always led to this. Your whoring, your scheming, your treason, no matter the tiny alterations in your plans, would have always ended here. This is the sum of _your_ actions.”

She does not need to say the exact words for Sansa to wholly grasp the hidden accusation. This is your fault. You are to blame. Without you, he would still be alive, here to protect you, to kiss you, to take you away and set you free.

One day, Sansa wishes, Cersei will stand before the sum of _her_ actions. Her children, the abominations she adores so much, killed in more brutal ways than Sansa's beloved kin has, everything she held dear destroyed, everything she built and regarded with pride crumbling.

Her rage and spite are empty in her stomach. This day is still far away and right now, the tables are still turned: Everything Sansa had cherished in her captivity is in ruins.

“What do you want from me?” Sansa whispers, breaking her own vow of silence.

For the first time, Cersei’s perfect mask of indifference splits into a sweet smile. Her bell-like laughter is quiet and calm as she cocks her head to regard Sansa. “But little dove, don't you see? I already have what I want.”

With the remnants of that smile still on her face, the queen turns to leave Sansa to the darkness.

Only when Sansa is certain that she is alone again does she allow the sobs to make noise again. She hangs her head and the tears now drip from her nose rather from her chin. Her head spins with fatigue and fear and rage.

She cannot face the court again. Cannot go and stand beside the queen and Joffrey knowing that they _know_. There will be no public retaliation for what she did, for what she denied Joffrey, that would only serve to humiliate the king who, in the eyes of the public, was thwarted by his unfaithful betrothed. Not a good impression for a king.

But to think that this murder will be only consequence of her actions would be naive. She can almost hear Joffrey's taunting behind closed doors. _The dog and his bitch. See, the wolf needed another dog to fuck. Did you like being mounted like that, Sansa? Did he made you howl?_

She cries even harder. He did not make her howl, he made her alive. He made her ache, made her need more and gave her a taste of what a marriage to Joffrey could never give her. He gave her a sense of certainty in a place where the pillars of her world were shattering around her.

Anger rises again in her and with sudden force, she moves towards the smelling corpse in the branches, clawing at Sandor's bound hands and feet until the ropes tying him are loose and drop to the ground. The stench is blinding and burns her senses.

Free, she thinks, as the puzzle of meat swings slightly with her attentions and she remembers the tender way he would call her little bird.

No more flying for the little bird.

Free, she thinks again.

Her hands tighten around the bits of rope in her hands.

Bran was always far better at climbing but her muscles remember her youth and find sure footing on little nooks and crannies in the strong bark. Branch by branch she ascends until she finds rest on the strongest of them, the one still supporting Sandor's limp body. Her dress catches on little edges but she does not mind.

Weaving the knots and the sling is no difficult feat for her. It reminds her of her sewing classes, her instructors teaching her how to bend materials to her will and reconnect them in new, stronger ways. She knows her knots are strong. Her work with fabrics was always impeccable, Septa Mordane had told her.

The rope is surprisingly soft around her neck despite the coarseness of the material and it feels much more comfortable than any of the gold-wrought necklaces Joffrey had made her wear at her time in court. So much lighter, much less of a burden to wear.

Free, she thinks as she takes one last look at Sandor. And takes the plunge.


End file.
